


Chocolate Waffles and Wings

by SilkySleep



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Baker Quackity, Burn Out, Gen, He's tired, there's not a lot to say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkySleep/pseuds/SilkySleep
Summary: "Just another day, just another job, just another task to complete. Sometimes his day would change, but it’d be forgotten."Quackity is just tired, that is all
Relationships: Alexis| Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Kudos: 12





	Chocolate Waffles and Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cris_C](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cris_C/gifts).



> decided to finish this bit up and kick it out of my tabs, I'm tireddd

* * *

It was a stressful month for Quackity. Routines repeatedly blending again and again into each other. With a reluctant groan, he arched his back into his stiff mattress, the sheets making a soft noise as they were unceremoniously shoved to the floor. Stretching his arms, the swirls of cool air touch the surrounding of his skin, taking away the numbing warmth of sleep. The rising sun blinds his eyes and goads him to hide into his messy nest of blankets, the same blankets that lost their soft comforting appeal a while ago. Giving a resigned sigh, he let himself roll out of bed, making sure not to crush his wings in the process as he let himself, painstakingly slow, slump to the side as his face met his floorboards, his cheek squishing into the wood as he let out a feeble whine. 

Today wasn’t going to be anything new, nothing different. 

Propping himself on his elbows, he glared sleepily to his bathroom only a few feet away, the porcelain sink glinting harshly to his direction. He let the rest of his body fall on the floor with him, clumsily getting onto his knees and finally walking the short trek. It didn’t take long for him to start slouching and rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. The floorboards creaked slightly in protest, his wings giving quick and strong flaps in return. Stretching them out as passed his door, he felt a bit more awake. His mouth felt dry, his eyes felt heavy, and his hair stuck to his face in a way that even his mirror reflection called sticky.

The motions were practiced, repeated, rewound just to be played again and again each and every day. The same board creaked, the same clink rang out as he carelessly dropped his toothbrush in its cupboard, scattered with miscellaneous items he’d promised he’d clean each time he opened it. He had a small house, no living room, just his small room, and an even smaller bathroom, though his kitchen took up the most space. It was cozy, warm, it made him feel at home when it was put to use and he could feel the simmering heat waft over him as he laid his head atop his table, sitting on a stool and smelling the comforting smell of homemade food. 

And yet, Quackity had only learned that he could only feel numb and bitter anytime he glanced in its direction. No longer was there someone to use his kitchen. There were no more opportunities for him to waste time, hiding his snickers behind his hand as  _ his  _ someone dropped a bit of flour on themselves. He had forgotten the face of comfort, and continued to only ever spare quick and nervous glances at what used to make him feel whole.

Just another day, just another job, just another task to complete. Sometimes his day would change, but it’d be forgotten. Yesterday he saw a cat on his way out, the day before his hair continued to stick up, and today,,,well, today  _ nothing was going to change,  _ he thought to himself,  _ and I’d rather keep it that way. _

With a final decisive sigh, he picked up his beanie off the floor and shrugged on his jacket, the shuffling of the cloth being the only thing heard throughout the empty house as he slowly walked into his kitchen. Nothing new, nothing different, walk to his village and fly back if it’s dark, nothing new, nothing changed. Determined with this thought, he quickly snags a piece of bread on his counter and closes his kitchen door, already noting the crisp air that greeted him had now felt cooler, closer to that of a cold nip instead of the usual slow wake-up the mornings greeted him with.

His breath mists softly in front of him, a small sign for him to start walking. Quackity could definitely use his wings, but he didn’t see any hurry to get to his job anytime soon. Taking a bite of his food, he took the time to think on his walk, taking in the quiet and taking in his time alone. Soft grass underneath his feet, slowly becoming softer as he made it onto a dirt path leading to a bustling community, sounds of life welcoming strangers and those who only needed to pass by. It was relaxing to have his methodical routine and movement within the village, unlike his own house, the routine felt whole, felt deserved, welcome. Quick greetings from a few familiar faces as he trekked on a worn-down path were his wake up, a quick small wave and he felt his eyes light up more, taking in the speckles of colors waving in the wind as yellow leaves floated alongside moths. The stone path was carved long ago but he still took time to admire the patterns, the way his feet felt amongst sturdy ground in contrast to the soft dirt before. Cats skirted quickly around trees, kids chased each other around and the smell of flowers wafted sweetly to him, he was here now, a small warm feeling of relief and familiarity settling down on him as he gently pushed the door open. The air immediately warms around him, gentle, cozy, it beckons him in as the smells of herbs and greenery fill his senses. It made his mouth slightly water, the stone brick layout perfectly encasing a room, vines draped protectively over each other and small bright flowers complementing the warm orange that covered the top half of the quaint shop. It was easy on his eyes, a welcome sight after putting up with the bright sun.

This felt nice, this felt familiar. Walking inside, the quaint brown tiles making satisfying light noises as he lightly stepped his way inside, keeping note of the askew chairs shying away from their tables. He’ll ask someone to fix that up. All he had to do was step in the back and begin the familiar routine of following instructions. Orders would come in, asking for funny shaped bread, or small and dainty desserts. He didn’t mind it, it kept him going, kept him focused and productive. The smell of bread wafted around, reminding him that this was somewhere he’d wanna stay, where he was okay. The owner let him get away with a couple of things, one thing leads to another, and he ended up being able to make his own money on the side within the shop, a small glass display showing various edible creations, commissions for birthdays. He played a lot with color, sometimes he’d only have one funky looking piece of bread sitting alone in the case, other times he’d barely have room to stuff his creations into it. It was charming at the very least, it kept people coming to see the ideas, and for that, the owner let Quackity play in the kitchen. 

And play he did.

Sure, he was a grown man playing around in the middle of work, but he couldn’t help wacking leftover dough together to make a really tiny dog figure, or making a simple vanilla cake in the shape of a heart. Most of the time it was something small, something really simple, and other times he made something intricate, braids carefully made, tiny hatches of lines creating a picture. It eased him a little, surprising him at times when he glanced over at the case, full of the things he passively made. The fact that he did something weird, something sweet at times, anything really, he made something that others reacted to, even if it was to laugh at a particularly lumpy sweet he made that looked like it was in despair. It was the small validating faces of people that made his heart pick up a smidge, a tiny smile making its way on his face as he heard a girl ask her mom about the cookie he made to look like a poodle. It was nice.   
  


But he had to go home.   
  
It was getting dark, and his arms were sore. But he had to go home, and with that, he let his comfortable heart falter, feeling as if the vivid colors of the flowers drained with it. He was tired, and he was no longer needed for the day. It was getting dark, and all he needed was to hurry up so he didn’t get in the way of any mobs, his wings didn’t really feel ready for long-distance flying so he was hoping he could just make it home a bit quicker today. 

With a small sigh, he looked back, the chairs now in their place, and the smell of herbs dying down with the light.  _ Nothing new, nothing changed. It’s okay  _ he thought to himself as he descended down the stony path, gradually feeling it turn to dirt, to grass. Back to his house, back to the smell of stale air, of dying light. Back to nothing waiting for him, not even a creeper could grace his night. Nothing different today.


End file.
